


The Queen's Bishop

by RubraSaetaFictor



Series: The Morals of Chess [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 04, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Lestrade-centric, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft-centric, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-05-30 13:57:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6426571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubraSaetaFictor/pseuds/RubraSaetaFictor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Did you ever wonder what it would be like to be a fly on the wall for a day in the life of Mycroft Holmes? Thanks to a bomb threat at the Met that requires him to be placed in safe house, Detective Inspector Lestrade is going to get the chance. After all, wouldn’t the residence of Mycroft Holmes, minor government official, be one of the safest houses in England?</p><p>Runs parallel to the events of  <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/331411"> The Poisoned Pawn Variation </a>, but can be read alone.</p><p>Gen., no pairings. Rated Teen for recurrent cigarette use and occasional language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Kitchen

**Author's Note:**

> _The bishop has no restrictions in distance for each move, but is limited to diagonal movement. The bishops may be differentiated according to which wing they begin on, i.e. the king's bishop and queen's bishop. As a consequence of its diagonal movement, each bishop always remains on either the white or black squares._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _The use of the term "bishop” for the piece first entered the English language in the 16th century, with the first known written example dating back to 1560s. In all other Germanic languages, except for Icelandic, it is called various names, all of which directly translate to English as "runner" or "messenger" (e.g. in Norwegian "Løper", in Danish "Løber", in Swedish "Löpare", in German "Läufer" and in Dutch "loper"; in Finnish, the word is "lähetti", and in Polish, "goniec", both with the same meaning). In Romanian, it is known as "nebun" which refers to a crazy person (similarly to the French name "Fou" (fool) which is most likely derived from "Fou du roi", a jester)_
> 
> _In the middle game, a player with only one bishop should generally place his pawns on squares of the color that the bishop cannot move to. This allows the player to control squares of both colors, allows the bishop to move freely among the pawns, and helps fix enemy pawns on squares on which they can be attacked by the bishop. Such a bishop is often referred to as a "good" bishop._
> 
> _Conversely, a bishop which is impeded by friendly pawns is often referred to as a "bad bishop" (or sometimes, disparagingly, a "tall pawn"). However, a "bad" bishop need not always be a weakness, especially if it is outside its own pawn chains. Even if the bad bishop is passively placed, it may serve a useful defensive function; a well-known quip from GM Mihai Suba is that "Bad bishops protect good pawns."_
> 
> _\-----_
> 
> _Old English bisceop "bishop, high priest (Jewish or pagan)," from Late Latin episcopus, from Greek episkopos "watcher, overseer," a title for various government officials, later taken over in a Church sense, from epi- "over" (see epi-) + skopos "one that watches, one that looks after; a guardian, protector"_
> 
> _\-----_

The sharp metal edge of the bench scraper pressed firmly against the back of a baking sheet, chilled chocolate curling satisfyingly under its touch. A fine wisp of chocolate floated down to the sheet of parchment on the marble countertop, joining several others in a delicate mound.

The scraper and sheet set aside, a well-manicured hand selected the curl from the top of the mound and placed it carefully on the edge of the cake, the first in a crown of curls framing a generous mound of kirschwasser-soaked cherries.

“Mr. Holmes?” A female voice came in from the hallway.

“In the kitchen.” A few curls were inspected and discarded for their imperfections – too flat, too wide.

“Ah, there you are.”  Mycroft Holmes’s P.A. took in the towering confection as another curl passed muster and was placed atop the cake. “That’s beautiful. Black Forest?”

Mycroft shifted a curl slightly to the left and nodded. “Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte.”

“Do you have my list?”

“I do.” Mycroft placed the final curl in its place and slid the remaining chocolate curls into bin at end of the island and removed his plain white apron. He picked up a piece of paper from the counter behind him and handed it to his assistant, who gave it a cursory glance.

“Bagels? Are you expecting visitors?”

“Yes. There will be someone staying here, likely for an extended period of time.”

“A houseguest? May I inquire as to whom?”

“You may. You are aware of this morning’s spate of bombings?”

“Of course, Sir. Baker Street, The Met, St. Bart’s, Diogenes, you were one of the targets.”

“I’ve determined that the best course of action is to put those affected into safe houses until the matter is resolved, and there is hardly a safer house than here.”

“Your brother is coming to stay?” The P.A. could hardly hide the incredulity in her voice.

“Good god, no. Detective Inspector Lestrade. The only way he’d agree to a safe house at all is if I’d let him continue to monitor the situation, and the easiest way to accomplish that is to bring him here. We’ll open up the East Wing.” Mycroft waved his hand toward the east vaguely. “It seems as if there is no end to the stubbornness in my brother’s acquaintances. On that topic, check to see if the place in Cardiff is available, I’d like to put the Watsons there and I’ll need somewhere to put my brother’s landlady and the woman from St. Bart’s. They can stay together if it’s easier.”

“Is there any other way I can be of assistance?”

“Care to take a Kirschtorte off my hands?”

“In terms of presentation, it really is lovely, but I’m still working on the Victoria sponge from Wednesday.”

“The housekeeper said the same thing, though it was a lemon meringue pie on Tuesday.”

“Long week, Sir?”

“Very.” Mycroft looked at his cake despondently and sighed, grabbing the cake stand by its base and tipping the cake into the bin. “Ah well.”

The P.A. hesitated for moment, almost embarrassed to even mention it. “You could have served it to your guest, Sir.”

Mycroft surveyed the cake, sitting unsalvageable on a pile of rubbish. “So I could have.” He straightened himself up, smoothing the front of his waistcoat. “We aren’t rationing butter and sugar again, are we?”

“Not for some time.”

“Then add some more to the list.” Mycroft picked up his apron off the counter and pulled it over his head, tying it neatly behind his back.

“What are you making now, Sir?”

“Time is of the essence, and I’ve still half a bag of cherries. It’ll have to be a clafoutis.”

“I’ll let you know when I’ve secured the lodgings," the P.A. said to Mycroft’s back as he turned to the drying rack and grabbed a ceramic mixing bowl.

“Please do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a black forest cake I've actually made (though it's lacking in the extra chocolate decoration of Mycroft's): http://parade.com/244994/parade/martha-stewarts-marvelous-black-forest-cake/ 
> 
> And some recipes I haven't tried yet:  
> Victoria sponge: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/foodanddrink/recipes/8737927/Mary-Berrys-Victoria-sandwich-recipe.html
> 
> Lemon meringue pie: http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/marys_lemon_meringue_pie_02330


	2. The Great Hall

“Oh, well, now this is quite –“ Detective Inspector Lestrade didn’t quite have the words for it.

The ride out to the country had been somewhat expected, even if it did make him feel a bit like a child being evacuated during the Blitz. He had to admit, however, that his eyes had widened slightly when they pulled up the gravel drive toward the, well, manor was really the only word for it: two storeys of cut stone, big windows, and acres of manicured lawns. But even that glimpse of the outside hadn’t really prepared him for the grandeur of the inside. Dark wood panels from floor to ceiling, smooth flagstone beneath his feet, and a pair of massive staircases curving up toward the second floor on either side of the hall.

The heavy wooden door swung shut behind Lestrade with a resounding bang, leaving the Inspector alone, a pair of stone gargoyles guarding his way back out.

“Vera?” Lestrade placed his suitcase on the floor and opened the door back up. “Ms… Oh hell, what was her last name?” He leaned out the door further, but saw no one.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Lestrade turned, startled. “Oi, Mycroft! Don’t sneak up on a man like that.”

“The point of a safe house, Inspector, is to say safe, _inside_ the house. Or didn’t my P.A. explain the rules to you?’

“Not really, no. Spent most of the ride texting and she just scarpered off without a word.”

“Yes, well, Vera, was it you called her? Vera is an exceedingly busy woman, most particularly today.”

“What do you mean, I called her? She said that was her name.”

“Bit plain, but I suppose it’ll do for now.”

“That’s not her name then?”

“It is this week, or at least to you.”

Lestrade pulled his hand out of his coat pocket, grasping a piece of paper. “So I’m guessing this isn’t her real number then?”

Mycroft shook his head as he made his way down one of the long wooden staircases. “Highly doubtful.”

Lestrade crumpled the paper and tossed it on the floor in a ball and kicked it out the open door with his toe. “So much for that then.” He shut the door for good. ”So how about this place? When you said safe house, I imagined some non-descript flat, not _this_.” Lestrade gestured to the well-appointed entryway around him. “Looks like it belongs to a lord.”

“Not quite. And it’s not quite a safe house either, though I can assure you it is highly secure. This is my residence.”

“You own this? Guess your branch of government pays better than mine.”

“I said it was my residence, not my property. Follow me, if you will, and I’ll show you to your room.” Mycroft led Lestrade up the staircase at the other side of the hall. “The title-holder is the Crown. The property was commandeered for the War Effort and used to train SOE agents. The original owner thought he might as well learn a thing or two and enlisted, thought I believe he was somewhat motivated by the fact that at time trainees at the facility were well-supplied with drink and pretty girls to see if they could hold their tongues under such, shall we say, trying circumstances.”

“Loose lips, eh?”

“Precisely. Lord Guildford held up under such duress quite admirably, and was sent to Normandy to support the French resistance, where he, unfortunately, lost his life.  Guildford had no heirs, and as the home was well equipped –“  

“It was just the place to house a "minor" government official. Yeah, course it is.”

“Better occupied than empty, no?” Mycroft swung open the door to a bedchamber dominated by a large four-poster bed with heavy green curtains pulled back on each side.  

“I’m definitely in the wrong bit of government.” Lestrade put down his suitcase, shrugged off his coat and laid it on the coverlet, and looked around the room. There was a heavy bureau against one wall, a wingback chair next to a small fireplace and several small tapestries on the walls. Other than a bedside table, a few lamps and a small rug on the wooden floor, the room was otherwise empty. It was beautiful, if not exactly homey.

“You’ll reside here until the Moriarty situation has been defused. You are welcome to any room on this wing, but you’ll find this is the only one that has been opened in some time. You also have open access to the ground floor. The kitchen is at the west end of building, you may help yourself to anything you find there. If there is something you need or would like that is not available, add it to the list beside the refrigerator, shopping is done twice a week. My cook is particular and gets quite irascible if disturbed while working, so the kitchen is off limits from 4 pm until supper, which is held in the dining room at precisely 7 o’clock. You are on your own for breakfast and lunch.”

“Speaking of working, this isn’t a holiday for me. You said I could keep an eye on things, but your assistant took my mobile.”

“Yes, and I am a man of my word. Tomorrow, I will have one of my staff set up a computer station for you in the library with a connection to the Yard. You can monitor things from there. For security purposes, we would like to limit your conversation to those you absolutely trust. Preferably no more than one.”

“Donovan.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You’re certain she can be trusted?”

“Donovan.”

“Very well. She will be briefed and provided with a secure line in the morning. Oh, and two final things. The west wing is my private residence and shall not be disturbed.”

“Got it. And the other?”

“You will need to smoke on the balcony or in the garden. The smell is impossible to get out of the tapestries.”

“I quit. Nasty habit.”

Mycroft sent a glance toward Lestrade’s forearm. “Yes, haven’t we all. One last question—“ Mycroft was cut off by the buzzing of his mobile. He checked the caller ID and raised it to his ear. “John, you’ve come to your senses about Cardiff, I hope.” Mycroft’s face fell slightly, before resuming its normal neutral hold. “I see. Yes. Yes, it was good you were there. Which hospital?”

Lestrade’s ears perked up at the word hospital. “Is the baby all right?”

Mycroft held up a finger as he listened. “Yes. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Mycroft pocketed his phone, closed his eyes and sighed.

“Are Mary and the baby all right?”

“They’re fine. It seems that my brother has decided that now would be a good time to have an overdose.”

“What was it this time? Heroin? Cocaine?”

“No, my brother has managed to do it with something far more prosaic this time -- nicotine patches.” Mycroft tapped Lestrade’s forearm as he turned to leave the room. “Make sure to remove that before you open the pack in your pocket.”

Lestrade looked down at the packet of cigarettes clearly outlined in his shirt pocket. “Oh hell.” He pulled them out and tossed them on the bed before grabbing his coat. “I’m coming with you.”

“You most certainly are not. The whole point of this arrangement is to keep you _out_ of harm’s way.”

“Then how come you can go?”

“I can go because my brother doesn’t care if something happens to me.”

“Oh.” Lestrade placed his coat back down on the bed and watched as Mycroft moved toward the door. “You said you had one more question.”

“What? Oh yes, do you have any food allergies? I should let the cook know.”

“Cherries. A bit uncommon, but yeah.”

“Cherries. Pity.” Mycroft shut the door behind him.

Lestrade sat down on the edge on the bed and ran both hands over his hair, the room seeming both more enormous and smaller than before. “Ah, damn it.” He unbuttoned his sleeve and pushed it up, pulling the nicotine patch off his forearm before reaching for the plastic-wrapped pack beside him. “Damn it all to hell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The history of Mycroft's home is loosely based on Wanborough Manor near Guildford, which trained 130 SOE agents between 1941-1943. And yes, drink and pretty girls were supplied, but apparently they were so successful at extracting details from the trainees that the tests had to be abandoned.
> 
> http://www.countrylife.co.uk/culture/country-house-architecture/the-wartime-role-of-country-houses-31125
> 
> As for that poor cherry clafoutis: http://www.bakersroyale.com/cherry-clafoutis/


	3. The Library

Lestrade looked down at the book in his hands and sighed.  Page 12. That’s all he’d managed in the past hour. He shut the tome and set it in his lap, leaning back against the worn leather of the wingback chair, and pressed the heels of hands into his eyes. Halfway through Day 1 and he was already bored out of his mind. And he’d be here for what? Days? Weeks?

He’d seen Sherlock solve a crime in 30 minutes or less, but this was different, this was Moriarty back from the dead, or someone posing as Moriarty.  Whoever it was, they were clearly in no rush. The three weeks between the video and the bombs proved that.  And if it was Moriarty, you could tack another two years on to that.

Years.

Lestrade groaned. They couldn’t possibly keep him stuck in a safe house for that long, could they?

The half-full pack of cigarettes in his pocket was calling to him. He wasn’t even sure why he had bought the damn thing. He hadn’t smoked in months, he had quit (again), he was doing fine, and then someone had to plant a bloody smoke bomb in his office and blow up a panda car.

And now he was living with _Mycroft Holmes_ of all people, and Sherlock was in hospital, and he had no idea what was going on, no phone, no one to talk to, and the only legible book on hand was so far beyond his ken that he only gotten through 12 pages in an hour. He looked around at the shelves of books reaching to the ceiling on two walls of the room, and calculated his chances of finding something better than the book in his hand. His eyes settled on the large oil portrait over the fireplace of a man in tweed hunting attire, dead duck in one upraised hand. _Not good_ , _Lord Guildford,_ he thought, _not good_.

God, he wanted a smoke.

He pulled the pack from his pocket and removed a cigarette, tapping it against the mahogany table at his side. Just this one pack. He’d finish this pack and not put another on the shopping list. One and done. He put the fag between his lips, pocketed the rest of the pack, and pushed himself up out of the chair, the old springs creaking in relief.

It was a warm enough day, for February, at least. That was the one thing he didn’t like about smoking, he couldn’t care less about the judging looks, had come to terms with the occasional cough, but it was the standing outside in the bitter cold because no one let you smoke indoors anymore that got to him.

He grabbed his coat off the chair he’d tossed it on after his morning smoke and shrugged it on, when he heard the resounding bang of the front door and the distinct clack of wingtips on stone.

Lestrade stepped in the doorway of the library and called out into the hall, the cigarette falling from his lips, “Mycroft!”

The efficient rhythm of footsteps paused. “Oh, Inspector Lestrade, you’re still here.”

“It’s a safe house, of course I’m still here. I’ve got no car, no phone, and I’m pretty sure it’d take me an hour to walk to the nearest inhabited property.”

Mycroft began to head up the staircase to the west wing. “Apologies, it’s been a long morning.”

“Hold on. How’s Sherlock? I’ve been waiting since last night for any kind of update. Is he alright?”

Lestrade watched as Mycroft’s eyes settled on his face for a moment before travelling to the cigarette he had dropped on the floor. He reached down and grabbed the cigarette and shoved it in his pocket. “Sorry,” he pulled at the collar of his coat, “I was headed outside.”

Mycroft walked past Lestrade and sat himself behind the heavy wooden desk in the library. “Sit.”

Lestrade jerked off his coat and sat back in the chair opposite, feeling a bit like he was at a job interview.

Mycroft sighed, his face softening somewhat to Lestrade’s view. “Sherlock will be fine. John Watson once again managed to be exactly where my brother needed him to be and ensured he got the medical treatment he required. He will have a headache and be a bit groggy for several days, but physically he will be fine.”

“You told me he didn’t take drugs when he had a case. That as long as he had the mental stimulation he’d be fine. That was the whole point of our arrangement in the first place.”

“So I did.”

“But he’s got the biggest case of his life on right now –“

“And yet he’s overdosed twice in as many months. I am well aware.”

“So what’s changed?”

Mycroft smiled a sad little smile. “Inspector, even you, surely, can see that.”

Lestrade shifted a bit uncomfortably in his chair.

Mycroft’s gazed drifted to the stack of books and papers on the table by the wingback, his tone forcibly brighter. “How are you settling in?”

Lestrade was a bit relieved, he admitted, by the change in subject. “Oh, fine. I read all the papers, solved the Sudoko, didn’t fare quite as well on the crossword, couldn’t come up with the name of the Ugandan president deposed in 1979 --“

“Idi Amin.”

Lestrade continued, “—tried to find something to read, but it’s like a uni bookstore in here. Everything seems to be either a textbook-level analysis of something, or in some foreign language.”  He picked up a book from the desk. “Like I think this is the _Art of War_ , but it’s hard to tell because it’s in Chinese.”

Mycroft shrugged. "It loses something in the translation.”

“So I’ve been trying to read this, but it is way beyond me." Lestrade tossed Mycroft the copy of _The Dynamics of Combustion_. "How’d you get from writing that to ‘minor government official’ anyway?”

“I didn’t write this.” Mycroft rippled the pages under his thumb before setting it on the desk.

“Oh. I just assumed, I mean, how many M. Holmes can there be?”

“Eight living that I know personally, but this particular one happens to be my mother.”

“Your mother is an expert on combustion?”

“She had a passing interest in combustion. She was an expert in mathematical physics, though she’s given both up for Rogers & Hammerstein these days.”

“Alright, well that’s, I mean, it explains –“

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at the Inspector.

Lestrade attempted to clear his throat, which turned, embarrassingly enough, to a full blown cough. “Um, right. Well, still. Would it kill you have a few novels around? Even a biography would be nice. I imagine I’m going to have a bit of free time to kill.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. “I forgot your computer. I’ll have my assistant set up the installation for tomorrow.”

“No, it’s fine, really, even then I’ll probably need something to read. I mean, how long do you think it’ll take before this whole thing is over?”

Mycroft stood up from the desk and began browsing the shelves along the wall. “It’s been nearly a year since my brother came back from the dead, and Moriarty’s face only showed up now.”

“It can’t really be Moriarty, though, can it? I mean he shot himself in the head, it’s impossible, right?”

“Inspector, on some days I have seen as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” His fingers stopped on a thin red paperback, and pulled it off the shelf. “Biography, you said?”

“Yeah, that’d be nice.” The book landed in Lestrade’s lap, he flipped it over and looked at the title, “Alexander the Great?”

“One of the most successful leaders of all time. You lead people, in a way, you may learn something.”

Lestrade leafed through the opening pages. “This is in, what, Latin? No, I get it,“ he held up a hand before Mycroft could interrupt him, “it loses something in the translation. You know, they didn’t teach Latin in state schools, and even if they did, French was much better for picking up girls.”

A small, dog-eared Latin-to-English dictionary landed in Lestrade’s lap next to the book.

“Then you can learn several somethings. As you implied, you may have a great deal of time on your hands.”

“Great. Fantastic.”

“Now if you don’t mind, I have some work to attend to.” Mycroft opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a laptop and opened the lid, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “Dinner is at seven.”

“Yeah, of course.” Lestrade awkwardly grabbed his coat and headed out the library door. “See you at seven then.” He pulled the cigarette, mercifully unbent, out of his pocket and held it on top of the textbooks in his hands.

He may have to rethink not putting another pack on the list after all.


	4. The Dining Room

Lestrade strolled into the dining room and was met with a long carved wooden table, lined by a dozen equally formal-looking chairs. He'd toured it that morning, but there was something about having Mycroft sitting at the far end, framed by a large glass window and a pair of knights on horseback that made a big room look bigger and an already imposing man look even more imposing. A third life-sized chess piece, ready to put you in checkmate.

“Evening, Mycroft.”

Mycroft did not respond, but merely cast his gaze down at the far end of the table where the Detective Inspector stood. Lestrade looked down and found a plate full of food and a glass of red wine waiting for him, as far away from Mycroft’s chair as possible without leaving the room. _Really knows how to make a bloke feel welcome_ , Lestrade thought as he pulled out his chair and sat down, only to find his view of the other end of the table was blocked by a tall coconut-frosted cake on a stand.  _Real welcome._ Lestrade sighed and slid the cake to his left and lifted his glass toward his dinner companion.

“Cheers.”

 Mycroft put down his fork and looked at Lestrade with a gaze as stony as the statues on either side of him, leaving Lestrade with the distinct feeling that he was being weighed, measured, and would no doubt soon be found wanting.

“I said seven, did I not?” Mycroft asked evenly.

“Yeah, what time is it?”

“7:08”

“Sorry. Not that I get many dinner invites, but usually when someone says –“

“Let me stop you, Inspector. I can assure you that irrespective of what most people may do, I mean precisely what I say. Dinner is served at 7:00. It is 7:08 and our food has begun to grow cold.”

“You didn’t have to wait for me.”

“It would have been impolite to have done otherwise. While meat is best when given some time to rest, lukewarm pork is not anyone’s ideal.”

Lestrade looked down at his plate and saw an herbed pork chop on a bed of tiny roasted potatoes and some equally small greens, with what appeared to be some kind of mustard sauce. It looked like something from one of the fancy restaurants he used to take Anne to on their anniversary. He hadn’t had a meal like this in years and if it really had gone cold, then it was a pity.

“Sorry ‘bout that. You really didn’t have to wait. If you want, I can take it to the kitchen and mic it.”

“That would be difficult, as the kitchen doesn’t have a microwave. We shall just have to suffer through as is.” Mycroft picked up his utensils and began to cut into his food.

Lestrade cut off a piece of the pork and took a bite. Even lukewarm, it was very good. He didn’t think much about what he ate, usually whatever was quick, cheap, and filling.  But this? _This was a meal_ , Lestrade thought, as he dipped a potato in the mustard sauce and popped it in his mouth.

“This is great. My compliments to your chef.” Lestrade muttered through a mouthful of greens.

“I’ll let him know, though I’m sure he would prefer it if you experienced it at its peak.”

“For food like this? I’ll be here early.”

“On time is sufficient, but I should think there would be no further excuses for tardiness. It’s not as if you have anywhere else to be.”

“Can’t say I do, but I got a bit distracted.”

“With what?”

“Trying to read about Alexander the Great.”

“Really?” Mycroft cocked an eyebrow, and even across the long length of the table, Lestrade caught an expression that, if he didn’t know better, he would have called mildly impressed. “And how is that going?”

“Bloody awful, if we’re telling the truth, but like you said, I’ve got some time on my hands. I’ve used your dictionary to put together a few sentences' worth of words, but I’ve got no clue if they’re the right ones or how they belong together. So far I think Alexander is buying a soldier, or bought one, or maybe he gave a soldier some money to buy something else. I really dunno. I’m also not sure why it seems to start at Chapter 3.”

“Books 1 and 2 were lost to the sands of time, unfortunately. As for the grammar, you’ll find some rudimentary instruction in the introduction of the dictionary that I provided to you, but in many ways it’s not all that different from the French you studied in secondary.”

“Wouldn’t really call it studying and anyway, the only thing I remember are the phrases that were good for flirting.”

“Surely you recall the basics of verb conjugations? In French: être, to be – je suis, tu es, il est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils sont. In Latin: esse - sum, es, est, sumus, estis, sunt.  Cogito ergo sum. I think, therefore I am. “

“Right.” Lestrade took a bite of porkchop with a grin. “Simple.”

“Precisely.”

“Look, I hope you’re not offended, but I think I’d like to put some paperbacks on that shopping list or something.”

“Oh.” The brightness was gone from Mycroft’s voice, replaced by its usual even tone. “Yes, of course, put down anything you’d like, or put down a genre and my assistant will find something suitable.”

“Fantastic.”

“I suppose I should have also informed you that there is a television available in the exercise room, but I assumed you would have discovered that on your own.”

“I was translating Latin, when I could have been watching telly?” Lestrade let his head fall back against the chair with a groan. “This is what I get for not being a treadmill kind of guy.”

“I’m sure your brain didn’t suffer too much additional strain.” Mycroft watched as Lestrade pushed aside his now empty plate and reached for the cake server. “However, you may wish to reconsider your stance on treadmills if you partake of that. I’m told there are 340 grams of butter in the cake alone, to say nothing of the frosting.”

Lestrade gazed down at the slice he had placed on the small plate provided. It was slathered in shaved coconut and frosting and looked, quite frankly, delicious. “Are you going to have some?”

“And give my brother another reason to quip about my eating habits? I think not.”

“He’s back in London. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“You think you’d have to tell him? This is Sherlock we’re talking about. He’d probably sniff out the coconut all the way from Baker Street the moment it touched my lips. No, please, you enjoy.”

Lestrade picked up his fork hesitatingly. “You sure?”

“Positive. Besides, you wouldn’t want to offend my chef by letting his meat grow cold _and_ not eating his cake, would you?”

“When you put it that way…” Lestrade took a hearty forkful and shoved it in his mouth and quickly took a second bite. “You’re really missing out, this is great.” Lestrade realized that he was talking with his mouth full and hurriedly swallowed. It felt like being rude in front of your grandmother. “Sorry bout that.”

“It’s fine, Inspector, enjoy your cake.” Mycroft eyed Lestrade for a moment before returning to his own food.

Lestrade took smaller bites after that, but still managed to clean every crumb off his plate. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably should have mentioned this last chapter, but credit where credit is due. Ms. Jolie_Black's fabulous story [The Three Students](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3130853/chapters/6785798) introduced me to the idea of a Mycroft with an interest in Classical Studies. As someone with a minor in the topic herself, I found the idea quite appealing and immediately added it to my personal headcanon and then ran rampant with it in this story. 
> 
> As a side note on the setting, I waffled back and forth a lot on whether the room with the giant knight/horse statues was Mycroft's dining room. The folks [ on this thread point out](http://www.sherlockforum.com/forum/topic/3038-mycrofts-offices/), as does [Wellingtongoose](http://wellingtongoose.tumblr.com/post/37112086253/mycroft-the-engima-part-2-holmes-family-fortunes), that the room seems to be some kind of multipurpose room with an attached sitting area. Or maybe you walk through a sitting area to get to the long table. Is it a dining room? A conference room? 
> 
> In the end, I decided that since this is his private residence, he wouldn't have two rooms with a really long table in it and that it's a dining room with an anteroom, much like is found on [ this floorplan](http://www.british-history.ac.uk/survey-london/bk4/plate-3). And really, the visual of a pair of life-sized chess pieces is too good not to use. Feel free to tell me I'm totally wrong though. 
> 
> Coconut Cake: http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/coconut-cake-recipe.html


	5. The Library

Lestrade waited for the pink-haired young woman across from him to drop her end before placing the feet of the heavy wooden table down with a thud on the rug. He looked over at Mycroft, who was staring at his laptop screen, paying no heed to the activity in front him.  
  
“You got any furniture that doesn’t weigh eight stone?” Lestrade asked, rolling his shoulders.  
  
Mycroft replied, without removing his eyes from the screen, “Lord Guildford liked his purchases to stand the test of time.”  
  
“Well, should the apocalypse occur, there’ll be you, the cockroaches, and that table.” Lestrade winced slightly. “Sorry.”  
  
Mycroft didn’t bat an eye. “Why apologize? The cockroaches and I will have somewhere to eat our MREs and Kendal Mint Cakes.”  
  
Lestrade moved to grab a box for the computer technician, who waved him off.  
   
Lestrade wandered over to Mycroft’s desk and leaned against the front of it. “Too bad Lord Guildford didn’t have the foresight to install a couple more outlets in the room.”  
  
“There were several things Lord Guildford didn’t see coming. I’m sure he was more concerned about the German sniper bullet than the advent of personal electronics.”  
  
Lestrade leaned further back to see Mycroft’s screen. “What’s so interesting that you couldn’t take five minutes to help us move the thing?”  
  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but didn’t move his laptop. “Surveillance.”  
  
Lestrade watched as Mycroft clicked at his keyboard, an image flicking across the screen before rapidly being replaced by another. “That’s not London.”  
  
“No, it isn’t. See, you’re not nearly as unobservant as my brother claims.”  
  
“Is it… Italy?”  
  
“Greece. Athens.”  
  
“Moriarty is working from Greece?”  
  
“Moriarty is not the only present threat to the Crown.”  
  
“But Greece?”  
  
“Even you can’t be ignorant of their financial crisis. The birthplace of western civilization and they can’t balance a chequebook.”  
  
“Yeah, but what does it matter to us? We’re not in on the euro. Is there going to be an increase in the price of Baklava?”  
  
“I imagine a weakened export trade, weakened tourist trade and tightened debt market may have an impact, yes. There are also larger issues to consider. The Eurozone is not just an economic construct, it is a political one. You’ve seen the protests in Egypt and the unrest in Middle East. Do you know what a society does when it is in the midst of collapse?”  Mycroft raised his hands off the keyboard and folded them together.  “Are you familiar with the Seven Wonders of the World?”  
  
“That’s the pyramids, innit?”  
  
“The Great Pyramid of Giza, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Statue of Zeus at Olympia, the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, the Mausoleum at Halicarnasuss, the Colossus of Rhodes and the Lighthouse of Alexandria. How many of those are still in existence?”  
  
Lestrade opened his mouth to reply, but Mycroft cut him off. “I’ll help you out. One. The aforementioned pyramid. Everything else was destroyed.”  
  
“You’re worried about a bunch of relics?”  
  
“The Parthenon has stood for nearly 2,500 years. It has survived fire, war, siege, and being the ill-determined location for a gunpowder magazine. It would be a shame to see it destroyed by ruffians rioting because they could only get a “tenner” from the bank. Some things cannot be replaced.”    
  
“I don’t get it.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The Parthenon, Alexander the Great, the Latin. What’s the deal with you and ancient history?”  
  
“I hold a degree in Classical Studies.” Mycroft began clicking through various camera angles on his screen again.    
  
“Really?”  
  
“Is it that terribly surprising?”  
  
“I just always assumed that you studied politics and world domination or something.”  
  
“Sadly, they stopped offering world domination at British schools in 1939. I think you can only get it in America these days.” Mycroft stopped on an image and zoomed in. He squinted at the screen and sighed.  
  
“What is it?” Lestrade asked.  
  
“Armed guards. They’ve posted armed guards outside The Bank of Athens. A charming way of instilling confidence in the populace, don’t you think?” Mycroft pulled his phone from his breast pocket and hit a speed dial. “Hello, dear. Could you bring Mr. Melas over as soon as possible? Yes, the interpreter. I’m going to need to speak to the Greek Minister of Finance. Yes, again.”  
  
“You’re telling me with all this,” Lestrade gestured to the contents of the library, “you don’t speak Greek?”  
  
“I am fluent in Greek, both Ancient and Modern.”  
  
“Then why do you want an interpreter?”  
  
“I find that it is often advantageous if the other side doesn’t know what you know.”  
  
“But the Greeks are on our side, aren’t they?”  
  
“For now. I find it wise to not make a distinction.”  
  
 “You’re saying you treat your allies the same as your enemies?”  
  
“Yes, and vice-versa.”  
  
Lestrade chuckled, “That must make it hard to make friends.”  
  
Mycroft’s mouth drew into a thin line. “In my position, it is unwise to open oneself to the liability. It could put both parties and the Crown at risk and so I choose to not entangle myself with personal relationships.”  
  
“Except your brother.”  
  
“He is my direct relation, and as such, a minimum of contact is maintained. I also occasionally converse with my parents, should that surprise you.”  
  
“Oh, come on, it doesn’t take being a Holmes to notice that whenever Sherlock needs someone, really needs someone, you’re always there. Even John can’t claim that.”  
  
“I am simply doing my fraternal duty.”  
  
“Huh. Maybe it takes someone other than a Holmes to see it. It won’t kill you to admit you care for someone, you know.”  
  
“Really, and why are you not living at your own home again?”  
  
“Excuse me, Inspector?” the computer technician called across the room. “If you’re ready, I’ve got you all set up.”  
  
Lestrade crossed over and nodded as the tech demonstrated the various capabilities of the computer they were providing him. He didn’t notice that Mycroft sat frowning for a full minute before he returned his attention to his own laptop screen.

  
“And here’s your mobile.” the staffer said, handing Lestrade a non-descript black phone. “We’ve given your contact a secure phone as well, you’ll find her as speed dial number one. We ask that you only make calls to the approved lines already programmed into your contacts.”  
  
“Brilliant. A link to the outside.” He pressed open the contacts list to find only two numbers: D and M. He looked up at the tech. “Do you mind if I?”  
  
“Please do. We’re all set.” The tech looked over to Mycroft. “Will you be needing anything else, Sir?”  
  
Mycroft didn’t look up from his screen. “Thank you, Angela, that will be all.”  
  
Angela shouldered her bag and headed out to the main hall, while Lestrade’s voice rang out, “Donovan! God, it’s good to hear your voice. How’s everyone managing at the Yard without me? Oh. Well, don’t try to steal my job while I’m stuck here, alright? What’s that? Oh, about what you might imagine it would be like, I'm already bored out of my mind. Surprisingly excellent food though.”  
  
Mycroft cleared his throat. Lestrade looked up to see Mycroft nod his head toward the door.  
  
Lestrade’s voice dropped. “Right. Sorry.” He walked out of the room, the mobile still at his ear. “So has there been any movement on the Moriarty front? Do we know anything about the bombs?” His voice faded out as he walked down the hall, leaving the library silent, except for the occasional click of a keyboard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kendal Mint Cake: http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/user/3308686/recipe/original-kendal-mint-cake
> 
> A favourite of mountaineers, explorers, and cockroaches after the apocalypse.


	6. The Garden

Lestrade was surprised to find Mycroft’s tall figure hovering at the edge of the pond when he stepped outside to have his post-lunch cigarette, his feet crunching on the white gravel.

“Last one, isn’t it?” Mycroft asked without turning around.

Lestrade looked down at the single cigarette in the pack in the hand. “Yeah. My habits that easy to read?”

“A habit is a routine pattern of behaviour that happens regularly and often unconsciously. So yes, the pattern of _all_ people’s habits are that easy to read.”

Lestrade stood next to Mycroft at the edge of the pond.

Mycroft took a drag on his own cigarette. “You didn’t put any more on the list.”

“Nah. I really should quit. Besides, if I’m going kill myself while I’m here, I’d rather do it with that cake.” He placed his unlit cigarette between his lips.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You liked it that much?”

“Had another slice for lunch.” Lestrade mumbled around the cigarette in his mouth, as he pulled his lighter out of his pocket.

“Save it.”

“What?” Lestrade stopped, the flame of his lighter flickering out in front of the still unlit cigarette.

“If you’re not going to get any more, save your last cigarette. You can have it the day you get to go home.”

“I told you, I’m quitting.”

Mycroft held out his own pack, one cigarette slid to the top. “Save it.”

Lestrade took his cigarette out of his mouth and put it back in the pack in his pocket. He lit up Mycroft’s offering and took a deep drag before exhaling a plume of smoke. “Not bad.”

“Sherlock always derides me for using low-tar.”

“Well, it seems as if Sherlock is generally trying to find the quickest way to get himself killed. I wouldn’t read much into it.”

Mycroft paused before taking a long inhale of his own cigarette. “So he does.”

They smoked side by side in silence for a while.

“I meant to tell you, this is one helluva back garden. I wouldn’t have expected to find something so, uh,  Japanese on the back of a house like this, but for you, it works.”

“How so?”

“It was either bonsai or topiary, right? Taking nature and bending it to your will?”

 “ _Niwaki_.”

“What?”

“Bonsai is only the miniature trees, and to attempt to bend something to your will only results in breakage and frustration. The art of niwaki is to use careful, long-term pruning to coax out the essential nature of the plant. Hardly the same as trimming shrubbery into elephants, I should think.”

“Either way, it’s nice,” Lestrade opined, and gestured out toward the water, “The goldfish are nice too. It’s relaxing to watch them swim about.”

“Yes, the koi are just beginning to get more active. They’re fairly dormant in the winter.”

“I heard that those things can live for decades.”

“Decades upon decades. They say one, Hanako, lived to be 226.”

“How long have you had yours?”

“Do you see that large one over by the rocks? With the red spots?” Lestrade nodded. “Thirteen years. Most of the others are much younger, around five. There was a terribly hard winter and only the one survived.”

“Your own Hanako, then? What do you call it?”

 “Call it?”

“Yeah, what’s the fish’s name?”

“I don’t call it anything. Why would I?”

“I dunno, you keep something around for thirteen years, I think you might give it a name.”

“I’ve had my umbrella for ten, shall I name it too?”

“Your umbrella isn’t alive. How do you not name your pets?”

“They aren’t pets. They are fish. They are, as you say, ‘nice’, and they keep the biting insect population down. They serve their purpose and do it well. Not unlike my umbrella. I shan’t be naming either of them.”

“You’re really serious about that “no connections” thing, aren’t you?”

“I’m serious about everything, Inspector.” Mycroft took the butt of his cigarette and crushed it against the side of a large urn before tossing it inside. “I shall be having meetings all afternoon and will require the exclusive use of the library. I’m sure you can find some other means of entertaining yourself.” Mycroft stepped though the French doors, closing them behind himself before Lestrade had a chance to answer.

“Yeah, of course.” Lestrade looked down at the nearly burned up cigarette between his fingers. “Loads of things to do around here.” He took a deep drag on the cigarette, the paper burning up to the filter, and let the smoke filter out slowly between his lips. He flicked the butt into the urn, walked over to the small bench at the water’s edge next to one of the finely pruned pine trees, and sat down with an exhale.

Lestrade cast his gaze across the small pond, the stillness of the water broken only by the occasional flick of a tail and the gleam of scales in the sunlight.


	7. The Dining Room

Lestrade strode into the dining room at 6:59 PM on the dot and sighed. In front of him was another mouth-watering meal and a brand new pie atop the ever-present cake stand. Directly in front him, and miles away from the only other person in the room.

 _Two weeks_ , Lestrade thought, _it’s been_ _two weeks of this._

He looked down at the plate and made a decision, grabbing his meal with one hand and the cake stand with the other and walked down the long edge of the table, plopping the cake stand down directly in front of Mycroft and his own plate on the table to the man's right. Mycroft looked up but said nothing.

Feeling no particular need to break the silence himself, Lestrade walked back for his drink and cutlery, then sat down and began to tuck into his ramekin of shepherd’s pie, noting the balance of well-seasoned gravy to meat and vegetables.

He had nearly finished both the shepherd’s pie and the salad of spring greens, when his equally silent dining companion spoke up.

“The nasturtiums aren’t just for show, you know. You can eat them,” Mycroft said, barely looking up from his plate, “It has a slight peppery taste I find pairs with the rest of the meal quite nicely. It’s also said to be beneficial to the respiratory system.”

Lestrade looked at the small pile of flowers he had pushed to the side of his plate, and stuck his fork into one. The texture was a bit odd, but not bad.

He waited until he had swallowed to respond. “I’m not an idiot, you know.”

“I never said you were. Most people neglect to consider flowers when selecting edibles.”

“No, that’s just it. You always seems to know an awful lot about whatever it is we’re eating. Down to the calorie count, which I really wish you’d stop sharing.”

“I consider it important to be well-informed on all matters within my household.”

“There’s well-informed and then there’s _well-informed_ , if you know what I mean.”

“It seems that I am the one in the dark at the moment. Do enlighten me, Inspector, what is the upper limit on things I should pay attention to?”

Lestrade leaned back in his chair. "Can I ask a question?"

"Of course."

“Does your cook live in the basement?”

“Goodness no, why would I keep someone I like in the basement? His food is hardly worth that sort of treatment.”

“Takes care of that theory then.”

“What are you implying, Inspector?”

“I was just giving you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe your cook lived in the basement and there was some secret staircase or something, but you’ve confirmed that isn’t the case, so that leaves me with one, slightly surprising, fact.”

“Which is?”

“That Mycroft Holmes is an excellent cook and an even better baker.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You seriously think I’ve been making this each evening? When, precisely, in my schedule do you think that is occurring?”

“Sometime between four and seven PM. Depending on the meal and if there’s a new dessert or not. It’s been two weeks, Mycroft. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

Mycroft set down his fork, and studied the remnants of his meal, which appeared to have become distinctly less palatable. “Most people notice so little, particularly when it doesn’t comport with their established view of the world.”

“If your brother has taught me anything, it’s not to assume anything until all the facts have been presented.”

“Then you are wiser than most.”

“So it is you then, yeah?” asked Lestrade, reaching for the pie server.

Mycroft watched as the Inspector loaded his plate with an extra large slice. “I’d ask that you not share this particular piece of information with anyone outside these walls.”

Lestrade nodded with his mouth full of pie. “Your secret’s safe with me, but why? It’d be one thing if it was bad, but it’s really not.”

“There are no private passions you pursue, Inspector? Nothing you do for yourself alone?”

“But you really never eat any of it?”

 “Only enough to know if a new recipe is successful or not. The pleasure is in the making, consumption is secondary.”

 “I’m happy to play second fiddle, then. What is this one anyway? I think it’s my favourite so far.”

“Key lime with raspberry meringue.”

Lestrade scraped a bit of meringue off the top of his slice and popped the fork in his mouth. “You know, if this whole 'being the government' thing doesn’t work out for you, you can always go open a bakery in the country.”

Mycroft picked up his own fork and speared a nasturtium with it. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it. Some days it seems to be the far more attractive option.”

“More trouble with the Greeks?”

Mycroft sighed and reached for his glass. “If not the Greeks, then someone else on this planet will surely be doing something colossally stupid that needs attending to.”

Lestrade picked up his own glass and nodded at Mycroft with a grin. “That’s the truth.”

 

*****

When he entered the dining room the next evening, Lestrade was pleased to see his plate had been set in the place he had moved it to the previous day, with Mycroft’s own plate in its usual spot at the head of the table, but his eyes sat on the place-setting for only a moment before being drawn to the towering confection in the centre of the table.

“What is that?”

“Croquembouche with white chocolate and limoncello cream.”

“You know, I said I _liked_ the key lime, I’d barely made a dent in it.”

“It’s still in the kitchen if you prefer.”

“I get that you like to bake, but isn’t this a little over the top? I think I saw one of these at a wedding once.”

“Quite likely, but today is also a special occasion.”

“You got Moriarty, or whoever? I get go home?” Lestrade asked enthusiastically.

“No.” Mycroft frowned. “That puzzle remains to be solved. Here, look.”

Mycroft slid his phone across the table to Lestrade, who looked at the screen and recoiled. “What the hell is that?!”

A look of concern flashed across Mycroft’s face as he picked the mobile back up, and then relaxed again as he looked at the screen. “That, Inspector, is a placenta. Apologies, my brother was a bit overzealous with the photography.”  Mycroft swiped over to the next image and handed the phone back.

Lestrade looked down at the squishy face of a new-born captured on the screen. “Mary had the baby then?”

“Rosamund Mary.”

“Good name.” Lestrade scrolled though the next two images. “You know, I always thought all babies looked pretty much the same.”

“Agreed.”

Lestrade shrugged and moved to hand the phone back to Mycroft. “I guess that’s worth a --“ Lestrade gestured to the tower of pastry in front of him “-- one of these, then.”

Mycroft held up his hand. “One more photo, Inspector.”

Lestrade scrolled one more image over and grinned. “Never thought I’d see that.”

“I don’t think any of us ever thought we’d see that. Well, except for my mother, who continues against all logic to think she might have a grandchild someday. I think, however, that is as close as she’s likely to get. They named him the godfather.”

“I guess I’m not surprised. How do you think he’ll do?” Lestrade asked as he returned the mobile.

Mycroft looked down, catching the image of his brother gently cradling the new-born in his arms for the briefest of moments before the screen timed out to black. “I think, perhaps, he’ll do just fine.”

Lestrade reached up and pulled the topmost puff off the cone of pastries. “Then to Mum and Dad, Rosamund Mary, and Godfather Sherlock.”

Mycroft eyed a puff, but raised his glass instead. “Best of luck to them all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Key Lime Pie: http://smittenkitchen.com/blog/2015/01/key-lime-pie/
> 
> Croquembouche with white chocolate and limoncello cream : http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/1801/croquembouche


	8. The Library/The Kitchen

Lestrade sat in his chair in the library, full of coq au vin, homemade bread, and chocolate-raspberry tart. He opened up his book and prepared to settle in for the final two chapters of _The Godfather_.

Across the way, Mycroft sat at his desk, leafing through a pile of no-doubt highly-confidential government documents.

After over a month of this arrangement, they had settled into a tidy rhythm. He’d get up in the morning, grab breakfast, go for a run on the treadmill, then spend the day looking at the files and surveillance videos Donovan sent him and discussing them over the phone. If Mycroft needed the library, he’d go out back and feed the fish or take a nap.  If he was feeling particularly ambitious or craving a cigarette, he'd go for another run, because in truth, all those desserts really were taking their toll. At night, he’d eat whatever Mycroft came up with and then they’d settle like this in the library, each man quietly reading on their own. If he wasn’t so frustrated by the lack of any sort of progress on the Moriarty case, Lestrade would have said the whole thing was quite nice and it was, in truth, the longest and most relaxing holiday he’d ever had.

Lestrade barely noticed anymore when Mycroft’s mobile buzzed across the way, the man got dozens of calls a day, and he only looked up to see if Mycroft wanted him to leave the room. He did not expect to see the man looking increasingly concerned.

“Are you with him?” Mycroft nodded. “Good. Where are you?”

Lestrade watched as Mycroft’s eyes closed and he could see them flicker under the lids as if scanning for something. They flashed back open. “I’ll send someone trustworthy to Western Eye. Gregory.”

At the sound of his own name, Lestrade pushed himself out of his seat and grabbed his coat off the back of the chair as he scrambled to the desk, straining his ears to hear the conversation on the other end of the line.

Mycroft looked up at Lestrade and shook his head. “I’ll send one of my people then.”

Lestrade stopped pushing his arm through the sleeve of the coat.

Mycroft’s voice was even. “Do not panic, Sherlock. We will find John.”

Lestrade felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him, his coat falling to the floor.

“I will do everything in my power.” Mycroft paused for a moment. “I am so sorry, my dear brother.” A look of deep remorse passed over Mycroft’s face.  “Of course, Sherlock.”

Mycroft’s eyes closed as he put the phone down on the desk.

“What’s happened? Mycroft, what’s happened to John?”

Mycroft looked up at Lestrade, his face an unreadable mask and his voice strangely calm. “Moriarty is alive and John’s been shot.”

“Shot? Shot how? Is he going to be okay?”

“I don’t know. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

Mycroft pushed himself away from his desk and moved with purpose down the hall.

The shock of what was just said hit Lestrade like a ton of bricks, and it took him a moment before he realized Mycroft had left the room.

Lestrade ran out of the room and down the hall, checking each room until he found Mycroft in the kitchen, tying a plain white apron behind his back and before tossing a handful of flour on the island counter. With practised movement, Mycroft grabbed a bowl of dough from the fridge and added some additional flour, mixing it with his hands before dumping it on the countertop.

“What are you doing?” Lestrade asked, the confusion in his voice clear.

“Making bread, clearly.” Mycroft kneaded the dough, pulling up the sticky dough and slamming it down again and again.

“Now?!”

“Why not now? The sponge was ready and it will need to rise overnight.”

“Because you just said Moriarty shot John, that’s why not now.” Lestrade felt his voice rising, even as Mycroft’s remained frustratingly even. “Do we even know where he is?”

The dough slammed against the countertop.

“Do we know _how_ he is?” Lestrade was nearly shouting now, “You’re baking bloody bread and John could be dead!”

“I am well aware!”  The ball of dough hit the cabinets across from the island and stuck there. Both men stared at it in silence, the seconds slowly passing before the dough unstuck itself and landed with a thud on the floor.

Lestrade stared at the mess of flour near his toes before saying evenly, “I’m not eating that.”

He looked up to find Mycroft’s elbows resting in the flour on the counter, his head in his own dough-covered hands, his breath raising his shoulders in a slow, measured cadence.

“Jesus, Mycroft, I’m – I didn’t realize John meant that much to you.”

“John Watson means nothing to me,” Mycroft said as he pulled himself up to standing, armour back in place despite the flour in his hair. “But he means a great deal to my brother. I fear I may have made a grave mistake.”

“What did you do?”

“I thought that attachment to another human being might truly change someone for the better. I see now how wrong that hypothesis was.”

“You’re saying you made a mistake letting Sherlock be friends with John?”

“That may prove to be my greatest error, but for now I think it may be letting John fall in love with Mary Morstan.”

“I don’t understand, what does Mary have to do with any of this?”

“Mary shot John.”

“What? But you said Moriarty—“

“Moriarty is alive, yes. He is alive and it seems Mary knows him. But Mary is the one that shot John. I should have known.”

“Known, why? Why would she shoot John? What do you know?” Lestrade didn’t know whether to be confused or angry.

“Mary has not always been a nurse and John is not the first of your acquaintances to which she has taken a gun.”

“I don’t understand –“

“Sherlock was clearly facing his shooter, yet he refused to say who it was.”

Lestrade blinked. “He said he didn’t remember.”

“And you believed that?”

“He died for a bit, Mycroft. It might have knocked a thing or two out of the mind palace.”

“But forgetting the person who killed you? I don’t think so. Which means it must have been someone Sherlock wanted to protect. And who does Sherlock want to protect more than Doctor Watson? And that extends to protecting his heart.”

“And you said nothing, and let John stay with her?”

“Sherlock insisted and I agreed. He said he had a plan. That she was in his debt now. Mary Morstan was one of the few things that had assured that John Watson was still here when my brother returned from the dead. I believed my brother when he said Mary truly loved John. But I made the mistake of thinking that as long as that attachment went unchallenged, John, and by extension, Sherlock, would be safe. And then, of course, there was the baby on the way, a fabulous complication if ever there was one.”

“Jesus, the baby. Mycroft, where is the baby?”

Mycroft’s face dropped. “Sherlock said Mary had Rosie with her.”

“We have to find that baby. Look, I don’t give a shit about my own safety right now. What I can I do? Tell me where to go and I’ll go. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

“Sherlock is right, we can’t risk anyone else. He entrusted me to protect his friends and I’ve failed with John. I’ll not do the same with you.” Mycroft paused a moment, before pulling the apron off over his head and looked at Lestrade intently, calculating. “Inspector, can you keep a secret?”

Before Lestrade could answer, Mycroft’s phone buzzed again.

Both pairs of eyes shot to Mycroft’s pocket and he quickly grabbed the phone and lifted it to his ear, listening intently. “You stay there with him, Sherlock. Stay there and we will find Mary and Rosie.” He pulled the phone from his ear, confirming that he had been hung up on, and looked up at Lestrade. “They found John, the paramedics were still working.”

“Thank God.” Lestrade let out a breath, slumping against the cabinets.

“But we’ve no time to lose, we need to find that baby. Can you keep a secret?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Then alert your Sergeant and meet me in the basement.” Mycroft walked into the pantry, shifting a box on the floor with his foot and pulled up a handle, revealing a staircase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Chocolate & Raspberry Tart (a Rubra original)
> 
> Shortbread crust:  
> 1 ½ cups all-purpose flour  
> 1 cup powdered sugar  
> ½ teaspoon salt  
> 1 ½ sticks cold butter, 6 ounces, cut in small pieces  
> If your dough isn't holding together, you can add up to 1 egg
> 
> Chocolate filling:  
> 1 1/4 cups (10 oz.) heavy cream  
> 9 ounces bittersweet chocolate chips (not more than 65% cacao if marked)  
> 2 large eggs  
> 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract  
> 1/4 teaspoon salt  
> 1 1/2 pints fresh raspberries, plus more for decoration (~2 pints in total)
> 
> NB: depending on the size of your pan(s) you may not need all the dough or filling.
> 
> Spray a tart pan, or several mini tart pans with cooking spray. Combine crust ingredients with a pastry cutter or food processor, until the mixture clumps. Using fingers, press dough evenly into tart pan bottom and up sides past edge of pan. Prick the dough with a fork, line crust with foil and fill with pie weights/rice/beans etc.
> 
> Cover crust and chill for 1 hour. Preheat oven to 375˚F. 
> 
> Place tart pan(s) on a baking sheet and bake for 10-15 minutes or until golden brown. Cool completely.
> 
> Make filling.  
> Bring cream to a boil, then pour over chocolate in a bowl and let stand 5 minutes. Gently stir until smooth. Whisk together eggs, vanilla, and salt in another bowl until frothy, then fold into melted chocolate.
> 
> Set aside about dozen raspberries for decorating (or 1 per mini tart ) Crush the remaining raspberries in a sieve to drain the excess juice and spread crushed berries along the bottom of the cooled crust and then pour filling on top.
> 
> Bake until filling is set about 3 inches from edge but center is still wobbly, 20 to 25 minutes. (Center will continue to set as tart cools.) Cool completely in pan on rack, about 1 hour.
> 
> Decorate with remaining raspberries.
> 
> Baker's note: this is a new in progress recipe, so check back for changes!!  
>  
> 
> \----  
> Sourdough Bread: http://www.culturesforhealth.com/how-to-make-sourdough-bread


	9. The Basement

Lestrade had never seen so many monitors in his life. It looked like something out of a movie, but there it was, a bank of a dozen screens showing feeds from traffic light cameras across west London. He sat there in the small stone-walled room, eyes scanning from one screen to the next with the slightly unsettling knowledge that Big Brother was, quite literally, watching, while at the same time wishing John and Mary had purchased something flashier than a black Audi estate car.

It had only taken a short time for Donovan to confirm that a car matching the Watsons’ registration had pulled out of the Welbeck carpark shortly before the time of Sherlock’s first call, and the carpark’s security feed clearly showed Mary at the wheel.

Now they just had to figure out where she was headed. They systematically checked the traffic lights at the nearest intersection, and moved their way out from there.

He’d given Donovan the list of Sherlock’s bolt holes Mycroft had provided and they’d sent officers to the Watson home. Mary wasn’t to be found, and nothing important seemed to be missing, but a list of addresses found next to a stack of baby-themed thank-you cards gave them several more options to consider.

Lestrade’s eye was drawn to a screen on the left, which flashed as a traffic camera flashed to catch someone running a red light.

“Mycroft, stop! That one there, go back.”

The footage reversed itself slightly and there it was, a black Audi estate car with a blonde in the driver’s seat.

“What intersection is that?”

Mycroft looked at the master computer in front of him “Westway and A3220.”

“So is she going West or South?” Another flash caught his eye. “There!”

“Holland Road, Addison Crescent.”

Lestrade grabbed the unfolded map of London from on top of the stack of MRE boxes shoved against the wall and traced the route with his finger. “Do you think she’s headed to Heathrow?”

Mycroft shook his head, “I’ve already sent a security alert to the transit authorities, she should know she won’t be able to get out that way.”

Another flash. “There!”

“Great West and Sutton Court.”

“She didn’t take Chertsey?”

“I told you, she knows the airport isn’t safe.”

“But where near London would she think _is_ safe for her?”

Mycroft’s head shot up. “She’s headed west, yes?”

“For now.”

“How many red lights has she run?”

“Almost as many as possible, it looks like.”

Mycroft smiled. “Oh, she is clever.”

“What are you talking about? She’s liable to get pulled over if she keeps at it, and then where will she be?”

“She won’t get pulled over at all. Call your Sergeant and put out the word that the car is not to be stopped under any circumstances, but that any sightings should be reported as soon as possible.”

“You’re letting her get away?”

“No, Inspector, I know exactly where she’ll be.”

“Where?”

“In the one place near London she knows she’ll be safe, Cardiff.”

 

*****

Lestrade was in the kitchen, refilling his coffee cup for what seemed like the umpteenth time that evening, and wondering if it was really a good idea or not. He rubbed his eyes, which were dry from the nearly three hours of staring intently at monitors, watching as Mary ran red light after red light, alerting Mycroft to her path until she left London, and ended up on the quiet streets of outer Cardiff, where Donovan had convinced some friends in the local force to station themselves at suspect intersections and report back, with no real knowledge of who they were following, or why.

The moment the car turned into the gravel drive in Llancarfan, Lestrade’s phone had rang and both men had rushed upstairs to get better reception. Mary, for whatever reason, had confirmed Mycroft’s theory and driven herself to the place he had chosen as a safe house for the Watsons over a month before. She had the baby with her and it didn’t look as if she was planning on going any further, at least not tonight.

Mycroft had started making calls and Lestrade had left him to deal with calling in the big guns to monitor the house, the whole thing decidedly out of his, and the Met’s, jurisdiction now. He took a sip of coffee and looked at the pile of miniature tarts under the glass dome on the counter and pulled out two and put them each on their own plate. _Under the circumstances Mycroft might actually eat one_ , he thought, _and if not, well, it’d been a helluva night._

He headed back toward the hall to bring Mycroft his tart, when he heard his voice coming from the library.

“Distracting you from the latest edition of _Hello!_ magazine, am I?”

He stopped just outside the sight line of the doorframe, knowing he should at least announce his presence, but Mycroft only spoke like that to one man.

“She appears to be at the safe house I had selected for the Watsons in Cardiff. Took her own car and seemingly ran every red light on purpose. Tracking the license plate was laughably easy, it’s almost as if she wants to be found.”

There was a pause as Sherlock said something Lestrade couldn’t hear on the other end of the line.

“Even if she wanted to, we’d be able to follow her now, but no, she appears to be settled for the time being. The baby is with her, all looks well. Stay with John, Sherlock. I’ll keep an eye on Mary and alert you to any changes.”

Lestrade couldn’t hear the next thing Sherlock said either, but whatever it was, it seemed to catch Mycroft off guard as there was a long pause before he responded.

“It’s nothing, Sherlock. Back to your celebrity magazines.”

Lestrade waited another long moment before knocking on the doorframe and entering the room.

“Oi, Mycroft. I just grabbed some tarts. Want one?” Lestrade asked, proffering one of the plates.

Mycroft stood leaning back against the front of his desk, looking utterly spent.  He glanced up and reached out as if to take the plate, but then pulled his hand back, shaking a finger. “No, Inspector. Not even tonight.” His hand lowered back down to the desk, settling over a pack of cigarettes, which he spun aimlessly with his fingers. Lestrade felt the pull too, he had all night. 

“Did you talk to Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, looking away from the white box spinning on the table.

“Yes, I’ve informed him of Mary’s whereabouts and assured him that I have the situation under control.”

“Does he have any theories as to why Mary wants us to know where she is?” Lestrade realized he hadn’t brought a fork with him, and decided it didn’t matter anyway, picking up the tart and taking a bite.

“At the moment, I don’t think Sherlock could come up with a theory of who assassinated Franz Ferdinand if he had witnessed it.”

“Do you think John will be okay?”

“He’s still in surgery and that is something I have no control over.”

“You found his godchild, Mycroft. You’ve done that.”

“Yes, that is something.” Mycroft picked up the pack and pulled himself up straight. “I’ll be in the garden if you need anything.”

Lestrade resisted the urge to follow him. “I’m gonna watch some telly, clear my mind a bit and then head to bed. I’m knackered.”

Lestrade walked down the hall to the exercise room and grabbed the most comfortable chair available, distinctly ignoring the treadmill as he tucked into his second tart and turned on the television, the London news just starting on BBC One.

He was about to take his last bite, when his ears heard a breaking announcement on the screen. The plate clattered from his lap as he stood to get a better look. He cursed as the coffee splattered on his shoes and the rug, drawing his attention only momentarily.

“Mycroft!” Lestrade yelled down the hall. “I think you’ll want to see this!”

In his pocket, his phone began to buzz.


	10. The Exercise Room

Lestrade’s feet pounded against the rubber of the treadmill. He’d been trying to get Donovan on the phone since last night, but she’d been too busy to exchange more than a few terse words and he needed to do _something_. His hand drifted to the control panel, upping the angle and the pace, his eyes remaining fixed on the screen mounted to the wall across from him.

A woman with bottle-blonde hair and a brightly-coloured suit that jarred with the words coming out of her mouth read from a teleprompter.

_Reports from local authorities confirm the arson of eight separate One Stop shops last night. Eye witness accounts indicate that all eight shops were targeted at the same time and Scotland Yard has confirmed that they are investigating a potential connection between the incidents. The Metropolitan Police would not respond to questions that the fires were somehow linked to January’s video footage featuring deceased criminal James Moriarty or the recent car bombings at several locations in the city, including New Scotland Yard._

He knew what would be coming next and upped his pace some more as Donovan sat stone-faced in front of a microphone in the NSY press room.

_“Are these fires connected to the bombing at the Yard?”_

_“We have no reason to – “_

_“Do you think there will be more fires?”_

_“Is this racially motivated?”_

_“We’re exploring the motivations –“_

_“Is it possible that it’s James Moriarty? That he’s still alive?”_

_“If it’s Moriarty, where is Sherlock Holmes?”_

The feed cut back to the studio, but not before seeing the look on Donovan’s face under her barrage of questioners.

Lestrade reached back up to the control panel and grabbed the remote, turning off the screen and throwing the remote at the wall before letting the belt pull him off the machine backwards to the floor.

“I’m guessing it did not go well?” Mycroft intoned from the doorway.

“No. It didn’t.” Lestrade pushed past Mycroft and stormed his way down the hall into the library.

“Where are you off to?” Mycroft asked, following him.

“I need a smoke.”

“You quit.”

Lestrade pushed opened the doors to the garden. “Then I’ll stare at the bloody fish.”

Lestrade walked up to edge of the pond and crossed his arms.  Mycroft’s wingtips crunched on the gravel and made his way to stand slowly next to him.

“It was only a press conference. It wouldn’t have gone any better if you were there.”

“Yeah, but it’s my job to be the one getting yelled at. I should be there doing _something_ instead of mucking around here doing fuck-all for over a month! It’s one thing when nothing was happening, but now John’s in hospital and innocent people in the city I swore to protect are dying. I said an oath, Mycroft, I’m supposed to keep the peace to the best of my power and I’m hiding out here like a coward.”

“You know that’s not true. Your presence was a liability to your fellow officers. It was for everyone’s safety that you were removed.”

“That makes a bloke feel a helluva lot better.”  He looked across his shoulder at Mycroft and extended his hand. “Give me a cigarette.”

“You quit.”

“I know you have some. Give one over. I’ll give you mine from upstairs later.”

“I don’t want your cigarette, Inspector. You quit.”

“Fine.” Lestrade turned to the urn and began digging through its contents.

“Whatever are you doing?”

“Getting a cigarette. You only ever smoke half of it anyway.” Lestrade pulled out a bent, but fairly intact butt.

“Here.” Mycroft sighed, holding out a fresh cigarette and lighter in the palm of his hand.

“Ta.” Lestrade placed the cigarette between his lips and flicked on the lighter, looking across the water as he lifted the flame toward his prize. “Oh dammit.”

The hand holding the lighter fell feebly to his side.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Now is hardly the time to become picky.”

“No, look.” Lestrade gestured across the water with the still unlit cigarette, both men’s gazes settling on the scaled figure with red spots floating in the middle of the pond. “I’m sorry, Mycroft.”

Mycroft paused a moment before cocking his head quizzically. “Whatever for? He was quite old, for a fish, it was merely his time.”

“Yeah, but –“

“Death comes for us all, Inspector, no need to give it greater importance than it merits.”

“Do you have a net or something? We can get the body and bury it.”

Mycroft looked back out over the water. “Leave it. The other fish will take care of it.”

“Isn’t that a bit –“

Mycroft’s voice was firm. “Let nature take its course. Now if you’ll excuse me, you have your cigarette and I have some matters to attend to.”

Lestrade continued to look out at the pond as the gravel crunched and then went silent behind him. He considered the cigarette and lighter in his hands and tossed them half-heartedly into the urn. He glanced at the figure bobbing gently on top of the water, took a breath, and started to pull off his running shoes.

The algae on the pond bottom was slick beneath his toes and he realized that it was still quite cold as he pushed deeper into the pond, the water lapping at the edges of his gym shorts.

 

****

 

“No, Sherlock, you can’t have a helicopter, just because you say it’s important. You’re going to have to at least tell me _why_.” Mycroft pushed open the doors to the garden. This conversation was giving him a headache and he needed some fresh air.  “You can’t be serious. That man shouldn’t be removed from hospital under any circumstances. His wife put a hole in his lung only days ago and you want to put him on a mountaintop?”

“Oh, it was _Mary’s_ idea. That makes me feel so much better.” Mycroft sat down on the bench with an exhale. “Yes, Sherlock, I am perfectly aware of Bobby Fischer’s success with the poisoned pawn variation, but these are _people,_ not chess pieces, the same rules hardly apply. It may very well draw out Moriarty, but it’s also quite likely to kill your pawn in the process. Have you spoken to John about this at all?”

Mycroft took another deep breath and looked at the smartly pruned tree across from him, the elegance and balance of its branches so much more logical than the idea being presented to him on the other end of the line. His eye was drawn down along the trunk to a pile of recently disturbed soil at its roots. He stood up to take a closer look.

“Yes, fine. I think it’s an awful idea, but as I don’t have a better one at the moment I will provide you with your air escort on two non-negotiable conditions. One, John consents to this hare-brained idea and two, I and a staff of trained operatives and medical responders will be on hand.”

Mycroft knelt down and ran his fingers through the dirt, feeling the soft spot directly beneath the upturned soil. “Yes, I will begin the preparations. Now get your consent and let the man rest as much as possible. He’s going to need it.”

Mycroft set his phone on the gravel and sat back on his heels for a long moment. He looked over at the pond and pushed himself up to standing. Walking over to the water’s edge, he reached down and picked up several large white stones before carrying them back to the tree.

He glanced up through the French doors to where Lestrade sat in library in a wingback chair, reading a paperback and paying Mycroft no heed.

He took the stones from his arms, placing them gently over the mound of earth. 

“Contubernalis, albo lapillo notare diem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translated directly, Mycroft’s Latin means “Comrade, a white stone to mark the day.”
> 
> Contubernalis specifically refers to one’s tent-mate, one of ten men (plus a subordinate officer) who shared a tent during their military service. In a wider sense, it was applied to persons connected by ties of intimate friendship and living under the same roof. 
> 
> I first came across the phrase “to mark the day with a white stone” in the letters of Charles Dodgson (Lewis Carroll), but its origins are found in Rome as well. 
> 
> Romans would use a black stone to mark unlucky days on their calendars, and a white stone or piece of chalk to mark those worth remembering.


	11. The Great Hall

Lestrade stood patiently in the front hall with his suitcase, his gaze drifting across the high ceiling. Even after more than a month and a half, the architecture still made him feel small.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his fingertips across the lids. He’d stayed up late last night, refusing to go sleep until Mycroft came back, until he knew what had happened. He had bounced aimlessly from room to room on the main floor, trying not to think about the cigarette upstairs, and eating half a blackberry pie instead. _Maybe more_ , he considered, since the two pieces he thought he had left were missing this morning, and, honestly, he had moved through the rest of evening in something like a trance.

He had run to this very spot the moment he heard Mycroft open the door.

“Did it work? Did we get him?” he had asked.

“Yes. Congratulations, Inspector, you’ll be able to go home.” Mycroft’s gaze had dropped and he began walking toward the kitchen.

“And John? He’s alright?”

“He’s back in hospital to complete his recovery, but he will be fine.”

“And Mary?”

Mycroft had stopped just outside the kitchen door, but he hadn't turned around, simply shaking his head instead.

Lestrade reminded himself that there was nothing he could have done, even if he had been there. But it wasn’t the architecture, he realized, that made him feel small.

He pulled on his coat as he heard that now too familiar sound of Mycroft’s dress shoes on the flagstone.

“Coming to say goodbye, are you?” Lestrade said with an attempt at a smile. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the sentimental type.”

“Merely checking that you were prepared for when my assistant arrives.”

Lestrade toed the suitcase at his feet. “Didn’t come with much. In case you were planning to check, the only extra thing I’m taking with me is about half a stone around the middle.”

“You were well aware of the location of the exercise room.”

“Didn’t say I wasn’t.” Lestrade took a deep breath. “So, it’s really over then?”

“Yes, Moriarty’s death has been confirmed in triplicate. There are, of course, others who were working for him that we shall have to bring to light, most notably the sniper who murdered Mrs. Watson, but none of them would have the level of personal vendetta against my brother that had placed you at risk. You are safe to return home.”

Lestrade had once thought that he’d be relieved when this moment finally came, but there was no joy in it now, not to get his freedom back this way. “What’s John going to do?”

Mycroft shook his head. “That, I don’t know. The bullet wound will heal, of course, but to become a single parent in this fashion? Sherlock has been texting me from the hospital since last night, badgering me to get John released.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“Apparently Doctor Watson is harassing all of the medical staff and insisting that he be allowed to go home to his daughter. It appears that what they say about doctors being the worst patients is true. Sherlock insists he can take care of them both, and though I’d ask that you not let him know I said so, I think perhaps he can.”

Lestrade looked toward the door. “It’s a different world out there now, isn’t it?”

Mycroft followed his gaze. “In most ways, no, but for those of us who know? It is inextricably changed.”

A realization dawned in Lestrade’s mind. “You’ve had that experience before, haven’t you? The world changing without anyone else knowing it.”

“Many, many times, Inspector.” From the other side of the door came the sound of tyres on gravel. “That would be my assistant.” Mycroft held out his hand. “You have not been a terrible housemate.”

Lestrade reached out and shook it briefly, his smile genuine this time. “You haven’t been half-bad yourself.”

Mycroft’s P.A. pushed open the door, flooding the hall with bright morning light. “Good morning, Inspector. Are you ready to go home?”

“Yeah, it’s about time, innit?” He picked up his suitcase and started following her out the door.

“I would have thought,” the P.A. said in a clipped tone, “with all that time on your hands you would have found an opportunity to call. I’ll admit to being a bit insulted. I don’t give my number out to just anyone, you know.”

Lestrade’s head snapped sharply back at Mycroft through the closing door, who simply shrugged. “Safe travels, Inspector.”

The wooden door closed shut resolutely.

Mycroft looked around the empty hall, its doors and hallways and rooms once again his alone. He paused for a moment, as if choosing which portion of his domain to reconquer first, before turning on his heel toward the staircase at the east side of the hall. He made his way up the stairs, swung open the door to the guest room, and found the bed still with its sheets still on, but unmade.

Mycroft shook his head and pulled the sheets off, piling them in a ball on the floor for the housekeeper.  Then a stack of books on the bedside table caught his eye.

On top, a copy of _The Sicilian_ , but beneath sat _The Latin Vita of Alexander the Great_ , with several sheets of paper protruding from its edges.

Mycroft sat down on the stripped bed and flipped the book open. He looked at the first sheet of paper. It was covered in notes:

_Alexander city in (dictionary?) was redacted into the temple of Jove. The vehicle where Gordium, Midas’s father was riding (well?), looked, worshiped no sane ( _____???) vulgar abhorrent practice. Notably there was a yoke restricting a lot of knots in (no clue) flapping??? and (no clue) connection._

His eyes quickly scanned the rest of the pages, noting how though the ink colour remained the same, the handwriting varied slightly, starting off neat and then declining with each new set of phrases, even as the grammar minutely improved from page to page. Mycroft smiled and looked over at the bedside table again, this time noticing a black ballpoint pen next to a discarded cigarette pack.

Mycroft reached for the pen, but at the last moment, grabbed the pack of cigarettes instead. He glanced inside and laughed a single laugh to himself, then slid the lone remaining cigarette out of the pack and placed it between his lips. Drawing the lighter from his pocket, he held up the flame to his prize and took in a deep inhale.

As the smoke filtered out between his lips, he grabbed the pen and clicked it open. He pulled the cigarette from his mouth with his left hand and looked down at the paper in his lap and began to write, stopping only on occasion to take another puff.        

 

 

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>   
> 
> Blackberry Pie with Lemon Streusel
> 
> Crust  
> 2 cups flour  
> 1 teaspoon salt  
> 2/3 cup shortening or unsalted butter  
> up to 1/2 cup of cold water
> 
> Filling  
> 4 cups blackberries, fresh or thawed frozen berries  
> 3/4 cup sugar  
> 3 Tablespoons cornstarch
> 
> Streusel  
> 1/2 cup flour  
> 1/3 cup granulated sugar  
> 1/2 stick melted butter  
> zest of one lemon
> 
> Pre-heat Oven to 350 Degrees F.
> 
> Mix together flour and salt for crust. Using knives or a pastry cutter, cut in shortening until mixture resembles coarse meal. Add cold water a small amount at a time, until dough holds together. Separate into two equal-sized balls. Flatten balls into discs and wrap separately in plastic wrap and place in fridge for about 30 minutes, or at a minimum, while filling and streusel is prepared.
> 
> Mix together filling ingredients and set aside.
> 
> Mix together streusel ingredients in a small bowl and set aside.
> 
> Roll out chilled dough for bottom of pan. Insert pie filling. Roll out dough for top of pan, making a lattice structure is recommended.
> 
> Sprinkle streusel on top. It seems like a lot of streusel, but I'd recommend using it all as the pie expands slightly while baking.
> 
> Put in oven and bake for 1 hour, or until pie bubbles. Briefly broil top to brown if needed.


	12. Epilogue: New Scotland Yard

Lestrade settled back into his desk chair and surveyed his surroundings.  His office was the cleanest it had been since he first moved into it and the stack of papers in his inbox higher than he’d ever seen. Still, it was good to be back.

He took a bite of the Danish he’d picked up for breakfast at his usual coffee shop. _Subpar_ , he laughed to himself.  _Mycroft Holmes has ruined shoddy baked goods for me for the rest of time_.  He took another bite and then tossed the Danish on his desk as a lost cause and took a sip of coffee instead. _Ah well_ , he thought, taking a look down at his suit, which had been a bit tight when he went to put it on this morning, _probably for the best_.

There was a light rap on the doorframe.

“Good to see you back, Sir.” Donovan stepped into the room and leaned against the doorframe.

“Good to be back. Looks like you didn’t manage to destroy the place while I was gone.”

“Nah, they only try to blow it up when you’re here.”

“You did manage to leave me a bloody lot of paperwork though.”

“We didn’t want you to feel as if you were totally replaceable,” Donovan said with a grin.

“Yeah, nothing makes a man feel important like processing a bunch of forms.”

“Well, welcome back.” Donovan pushed herself off the doorframe and pulled a thick manila envelope out from under her arm and tossed it on his desk, with a bit of a smirk. “Oh, this came for you this morning.”

Lestrade picked up the envelope, his name and address hand-written in an elegant script, and eyed it warily. “You sure this isn’t a bomb or anthrax or something?”

“Don’t worry, they’ve been checking your mail _very_ carefully.”

“Right, thanks.”

“Staff meeting at ten?”

“Yeah, see you there.”

Lestrade watched Donovan leave and turned the envelope over in his hands. It had indeed been checked, as the seal was already broken. He opened the flap and tilted the opening toward his desk, the contents sliding out.

He picked up the familiar thin red paperback and saw several pieces of notepaper still sticking out. He pulled out the paper and saw his notes had been corrected. Each “no clue” or question mark scratched out and the appropriate word written in its place. _Figures_ , Lestrade thought. He pushed the even more dog-eared dictionary to the side and looked at the third book, _The Metamorphoses of Apuleius_. It looked brand new. He flipped it open, and, as expected, found the text entirely in Latin. He tossed it on top of the dictionary with a shake of his head and opened the note.

_Not bad for someone lacking in formal instruction. Should you choose to pursue it further, you may find the enclosed novel more aligned to your professed linguistic priorities. Book Two, Section Six in particular._

_-M_

Lestrade laughed and put the items back in their envelope. He considered the envelope for a moment and then tossed it in the bin.

Lestrade took a swig of his coffee and glanced up at the rather towering stack of paper in front of him and sighed, his eyes drifting back toward the bin.  He quickly reached down and grabbed the envelope, tossing it into a cluttered drawer on top of old receipts, packs of gum, and nicotine patches, and closed it shut with a bang.

He shook his head. _Back to work_ , he thought, _back to normal._

He picked up his Danish and took another bite, grabbing the first paper from the stack.

 

 

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Latin Vita of Alexander the Great was the first book I had to translate in college. Apuleius' Metamorphosis (or 'The Golden Ass') was the second and is, interestingly, the only ancient Roman novel in Latin to survive in its entirety. As one might guess from the title, it has very different content than a biography of Alexander the Great. ;) 
> 
> If you're curious about what was happening on the "outside" during this story, check out [ The Poisoned Pawn Variation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4646178). 
> 
> If you just want to see more about Mycroft and his cake, read chapter 11 of [ The Hedgehog Defence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5335955).
> 
> Thanks to everyone who read, kudo'd or commented. A special thanks to my trio of retroactive beta readers, who made this more legible for everyone who came after them.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Mycroft makes some biscuits](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6727036) by [RubraSaetaFictor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubraSaetaFictor/pseuds/RubraSaetaFictor)




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